Attention: The party has been temporarily relocated from within the pants to the actual pants themselves, with a feisty pre-game session to be had in the form of chunky disco shoes.

I’d like to take a few sentences and give credit where credit is exceedingly due.

Our lower halves.

To begin: the body part that launched a thousand songs. The celebrated Rear End. That which holds The Tail Feathers. The Hind Quarters, without which I would never have the privilege of embarrassing myself so thoroughly at the gym via moves haplessly christened “The Donkey Kick” and the ever-titillating “Fire Hydrant”. My keister’s been there for me, quite literally, through thick and thin, cushioning ice-induced tumbles and galvanizing many a stupendous dance craze.

Oh, the thighs. May they never be shy. Thunderous or not, these powerhouses have hoisted us up many a seemingly endless progression of stairs, contributed greatly to several well-deserved karate kicks, and valiantly served as the pillars which support the priceless works of art that are each of our arses.

Downward.

Feet. You stalwart, smelly things. Where would we be without the pedicures you catalyze or the many, many shoes you so sportingly don. I may as well take this moment to apologize for walking barefoot into that wet-dog-smell-infused elevator last week. The smell was horrifying enough; I can only imagine what the experience was like for you two.

In celebration of the southern hemisphere of our bodies, I’ve drummed up three festive outfits which highlight this noble region with gusto.

As an arguably meager peace offering after the dreadful elevator fiasco, I made my feet the stars of the show with some funky chunks of patent disco wedges. Livin La Vida Loca is right. These shoes scream tequila shots and karaoke, but with comfortable sensibility on par with borrowing your grandma’s orthopedics. I mean it; these babies are sturdy like Sylvester Stallone’s chest circa 1976.

Broadening the focal point, I have here not one but two pairs of brazenly patterned pants. I enjoy these palazzo pants because I feel that they could make for a fine parachute should I happen to tumble from less than ten feet. Now. Regard those striped bells closely. As is often the unfortunate hazard of thrifting, the elastic in the waistband of these vaguely Beetlejuice evoking pants had been rendered obsolete by the time I spotted them in the midst of Buffalo Exchange. However. Undeterred, I recalled the recent trendy phenomenon in which larger waistbands are willingly being chosen so that they may be collected high up on the tummy by way of a skinny belt of sorts. Sure, I shook up the idea just a bit by instead using a polka-dot ridden shirt tied round my hips, but the effect is similar. I hear Britney Spears crooning “Circus” in my head every time I look at these stripey wonders.

Cheers to you, our bodily foundations.

The disco chunks are Nine West but were procured from a local thrift store in North Carolina and extracted $5 from my bank account. The pants? Both from the Buffalo Exchange in Austin. The palazzo concoction is My Story and the striped bells from hell are Stone Cold Fox. Collectively, the pants left me less than $40 poorer.

Intrigued by the featured photos? I was lucky enough to work with Austin photographer extraordinaire Monique Rodriguez. Check out her Facebook page, her Instagram and her fantastic website

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Meet The Garbage Lady

Jennie Thwaites is a writer, musician, stylist, amateur seamstress, expert kale salad maker and vintage enthusiast. Ethical style at any price point is the name of her game. Welcome to The Garbage Pile.